“Have fun tonight. Pack condoms. You taught me about safe sex, too.”
I get up and close my door, grumbling at the annoyance of little sisters. But inside, I’m feeling a mix of things. For weeks now, I’ve wanted to know what it would be like to peel back Lexie’s layers and reach the woman underneath. I’ve fantasized about slipping through her defenses and stripping her down to pure impulse and raw emotion. Last night, I’d gotten a sample, a taste. There was nothing cautious about the way her mouth moved over mine or those low, throaty moans. Or how her body trembled and called to me.
Our kiss lasted a minute, maybe less, but it was as remarkable and incandescent as a shooting star. I saw the look in her eyes when she pulled back—glassy with arousal and just a little bit stunned, as if she hadn’t expected to let me get that close. And still, it wasn’t close enough. I knew one kiss wouldonly whet my desire and sharpen my need. But it’s not just sex I want. I can keep that part in check. It’s the emotional pull, the connection, that has me by the throat. I’ve never felt this attached to someone so quickly. Someone who is only here for another few weeks and may not even want a relationship.
I return to my guitar and the song in my head. It doesn’t have lyrics or a title yet. I often create from a feeling. This one starts off slow, as if holding back, then explodes with strength and power. Lost in the music, the way I get when it’s firing on all cylinders, I work until the vibration of my phone pulls me out of my trance. It’s Lexie.
5:43 PM
Lex: I’m so sorry. Please forgive the late notice. I’m battling a terrible headache. Rain check?
My mood deflates. I wanted to see her badly, but I hate that she’s not feeling well.
5:44 PM
Chaz: Sucks to hear that, Blue. Can I get you anything?
I wait for the bubbles to appear.But there’s nothing.
6:12 PM
Chaz: I haven’t heard back from you. Just text to let me know you’re ok.
At almost seven, I try calling, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. She’s sick, alone, and has gone radio silent. I can’t ignore the pit in my stomach. Grabbing my jacket, I leave the house. A light snowfall dusts the rooftops and blankets the street as I hurry to the cottage. All the windows are dark, and her white Mercedes sits in the driveway, half-covered by the flurries.
I knock—politely at first, then louder when there’s no answer. “Lexie?” I call out, my voice carrying over the wind. It’s too quiet; the unease in my gut grows heavier. I’m about to use my spare key when I hear the shuffle of footsteps, followed by the door creaking open.
Framed by the glow of the streetlamp, she looks pale and fragile, her eyelids narrowed to slits, her brow creased in pain.
“Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I got worried when you didn’t respond to my calls or texts.” I realize just how over-the-top that must sound.
“My phone’s been off. Sorry you worried.”
“It’s okay. Migraine?” I ask.
“Tension headache. I get them sometimes.”
“Have you taken anything?”
“Hours ago. I’m probably due again.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Too much effort.”
“I’ll fix you something.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“And risk not being neighborly,” I cajole. “Do you realize the damage that would do to my reputation?”
She attempts a small smile, but it turns into a wince. “Sorry,” she mumbles, retreating inside. “I need to sit down.”
I follow her in, removing my boots and hanging up my jacket. The house is dark, but I know my way around. Making my way to the kitchen, I flick on the stove light. The space is neat andorderly—like the way she carries herself, at least on the surface. I pluck a juice glass from the dish rack and fill it with water.
“Where are your pills?” I ask, finding Lexie slumped on the couch.
“Coffee table.”
